


I remember a fire, I forget what you said

by the_authors_exploits



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed III - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Romance, Underage Prostitution, alternate universe-Haytham spares Connor, brothel, its really only mentioned in passing; and it's not Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham didn't give Connor a chance to kill him; but Haytham cannot kill his son</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a fire

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short oneshot; then it turned into an excuse for Connor to bond with prostitutes because why the hell not?

There’s something strange about having a body towering over him, a heeled boot digging into his wrist where it stays pinned, large and strange yet oh-so-familiar hands wrapped tight around his throat; there are words floating through the air, entering his ears, in that familiar timbre of his father’s voice. But he’s too busy gasping for air to care what those words are, too busy trying to ignore the fire lapping at the edges of his vision and the darkness that is just as threatening.

He tries to buck his body, dislodge the man above him, but it’s weak; he’s weak. Connor doesn’t want it to be the end, but it has to be; he’s tired, so tired, so bone weary. The fight seems to be a losing one, and he knows even if his hidden blade were free he wouldn’t want to use it—oh, it might come to that, but the regret. The despair, disdain for himself… It would be crushing.

He thinks for a moment that Haytham doesn’t want this either, or maybe that is the wish of an ignorant son; either way, there is bite to his words—that much Connor can make out—but hardly any heat in his eyes. Connor ponders, for a moment, how life could have been so different; he wonders if he would have seen other emotions in his father’s eyes had they grown together. As it is, that will never be a possibility.

He kicks his legs feebly, arching his head and twisting to and fro, gasping and gurgling; nothing dislodges Haytham Kenway, however, and Connor’s movements slow to stillness, his throat convulsing, his lungs begging for air, his mind shutting down. His eyes flicker and Haytham bends down from his towering position, his grip loosening at the movement just the slightest, and as Connor’s eyes shut on the fire around him he swears he feels something press to his cheek.

Haytham will not kill his son; he’s not so heartless as to actually wish death upon his own flesh-and-blood. Besides, this was hardly a fair fight. From the moment Haytham had caught sight of Connor, he could see the injuries. The way Connor stumbled, the way he listed, the blood somehow hidden on his clothes, the way his arms curled, and the glossiness of those mahogany eyes; all screamed hurt and, though the boy could care for himself, Haytham had to swallow the urge to protect him.

But that urge had always been there, just below the surface, simmering and bubbling; until now, with Haytham slowly choking Connor, when that urge became too much and Haytham decides he won’t go through with it—he can’t. Some Templar he is…

So when the boy begins to still beneath him, previously kicking legs rubbing into the dirt, his eyes fluttering away, Haytham bends; he loosens his grip, just enough to allow some breath, to ensure death does not come, but still tight for unconsciousness to claim Connor. And it does while, right at the tipping point, Haytham displays an uncharacteristic moment of affection: he presses his lips to a bloodied cheek.

“I will not…” he murmurs, still leaning in close. “…kill you. You are my son, and I hope one day we may see past our faction choices; claim me an old man dreaming, but I will indulge myself. If you want to die for a cause so bad, die at another’s hands; but rest assured, if they are useless to me, they will then die at my own.”

The boy is quiet and still; the fort burns around them and Haytham removes his hands, eases off the cracked ribs, and wonders where to go now. He brushes the braid from the other’s face, and only moves his creaking bones into action when a barrel of gunpowder explodes down the way. Connor is, by no means, a slight man and Haytham is already preparing ways to ease the aches that will come tomorrow.


	2. There are women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor heals, and makes friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of my sanity, let's ignore historically accurate literature available to the colonists.

When Connor awakes, there’s a tender burning in his throat and an unknown woman’s face swimming in front of his own; behind her is an unfamiliar wooden ceiling, sloped, and the lights are turned down; he wonders, if he’s dead, why his mother isn’t here to greet him.

The next time he awakes, he’s more alert; he can here the clatter of a street outside the window and the clamor of patrons in gathering; he’s confused. Very confused; his throating aches, and he tries to move but it’s too much effort and he hurts all over. There’s a throbbing in his head, an ache in his side, and when he presses the tips of his fingers to his neck he winces; there are bruises there, for sure. The last thing he remembers is Haytham choking the life out of him—and now he wakes here.

Wherever here is; he needs to move, needs to return to the homestead, regroup and reevaluate. Figure out why he’s still alive.

The door creaks open and the woman from before enters, a yellow bonnet tied tight around a bun of wispy carrot colored hair and a dress the same color swishing about her ankles; she’s carrying a tray of medical supplies, ointment and bandages and the like. Connor watches her warily as she moves; seeing him awake, she smiles broadly at him revealing a missing front tooth.

“Well, g’mor’ing, young’un!” Her words whistle as she speaks. “Weren’t sure if’n yous’d come ‘ack to us.” She sets the tray down on the side table while Connor goes to push himself into a sitting position; her eyes bulge and she surges forward to press him—rather gently—back to the mattress. “Tain’t go doing t’at! Yous’ll rip yer wo’nds!”

“Hhhhho,” he swallows; god, it’s painful. He forces his voice out anyways. “Hhhhow did I…geeet here?”

The woman sets her hands on her plump hips and stares down at him. “S’ch a nice ol’ marn broughtchu in; whut a horr’ble scerfluffle yous got in’o. Marn said ‘e wanted not’ing but ta best for yous, so ta best is wha’ yous get!” She gives a firm nod and rattles around on the tray.

“Whhaaaattt…maaaann?”

“Ol’ marn; dressered in blue and ‘lood, lugging yousself in ‘ere. All worrieds like.” She reaches for Connor’s throat and he flinches away from her; she pauses, frowns. “Oh mys; I’ve not ‘troduced meself. I’m Cathyren. I runs this ‘ere pla’ment; jus’ a lil pla’e for…humanes needs. Yous jus’ call me Rennie, La’y Rennie.”

A brothel, Connor thinks; if it was indeed Haytham who brought him here, he has a horrid sense of humor—asking for only the best care in a brothel house. “Maaaannn…givvvvvvve…naaaaaaamme?” he rasps.

Cathyren frowns, again, and fits her tongue between the gap in her teeth as she thinks. “Stran’e name, Is think. Hayman, er somet’ing. Tain’t no matter; he’s paid fer month’s werth of werk me girls’d do, so I’mma satisfied.” She reaches for him again. “Now ho’s aboot those woun’s, yes?”

He sleeps restlessly after his talk with Lady Rennie; her answer to his question confirms that Haytham must have brought him here, coupled with the description he wheedles out of one of her working girls (she’s calls herself Plum) when she came to check on him.

“Had a tricorn hat, I believes,” she scratched at a hole in her stocking over her knee. “Trussed up in a blue cape like coat, covereds in blood much’n like you; looked much’n like you ifs I could say so. Same jaw…” She’d tossed her shawl ends about her hands, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear; she couldn’t have been much older than Ellen’s own girl, back on the homestead, and something foul had settled in Connor’s stomach.

But there were priorities about his safety he had to confirm first; if Haytham had indeed spared him, the question was why, and especially why had he dragged Connor to this establishment and insisted upon the best care being called upon? If he were to just kill Connor later…

A memory presses to the front; _“If you want to die for a cause so bad, die at another’s hands”._ Connor shakes his head slightly, presses back into the soft mattress beneath his aching body, and sighs out; no, not a memory. It cannot be such.

Plum brings him breakfast for the following days, and one the fifth day another girl joins her; while Plum is small boned and tall, this one is shorter and rounder. She’s tugging on her unruly hair as she shadows Plum about the room, ringlets trying to obscure her face, and Connor can’t help but murmur out a raspy hair remedy he’s seen used in villages about the frontier to quell hair into place.

She’s surprisingly overjoyed to hear it, grasping his hand and patting and babbling about how now she’ll be able to see the man above her during bouts in her chambers; Connor blushes, tries to hide it well, and pats her hand back; he learns she calls herself Mare. She sits and babbles to him for an hour, filling every silence he might leave, a hand rubbing delicately but not erotically across his arm; instead, it seems she uses the contact as a comfort and, while Connor would much rather his space, he cannot bring himself to ask her to move from where she’s perched on the bed.

Brook changes his bandages when Lady Rennie is too busy, and Brook only glares; for her sharp cheek bones, wise tongue, and extravagant accent, her hands are gentle things and she prods no more than necessary. She slicks the ointment across the bruises against his neck and swats his hand away when he tries to unwrap the bandages around his ribs.

“None of that, señor.” She tuts. “I can tend to your wounds just fine.”

“I meant,” his croaking has improved, and for that he is grateful. “No disrespect, ma’am.”

She huffs, but it is not so unkind, and when she is finished she asks if he needs anything else; he shakes his head no. “Alright then, señor; I will be off now. Others need mi atenciόn." She bows stiffly from the room, going back to her work.

Mare comes in a few days later, dragging a round faced mousy thing behind her, and orders “Read us this, won’t cha, Connor?” Mare plops gracelessly onto the bed, albeit mindful of Connor’s still healing injuries, and hands him a copy of Oliver Twist; the girl she had dragged in with her stands uncertainly halfway between the door and the bed and she adjusts her spectacles behind her ear. She’s got shortcropped hair, chopped and standing on end; Connor cannot tell the color beyond something resembling the amber of falling leaves.

Mare notices his distraction; she rolls her eyes, waves the girl forward, and offers introductions. “This here’s Hickory; Hickory, say hi to Connor. He won’t bite cha; will you, Connor?” She gnashed her teeth, grinning and giddy.

Connor bows his head at Hickory. “No, ma’am.”

She starts at that, stiffens then slumps, a faint blush on her round cheeks and her lips curling upwards; no one has ever spoken to her with such respect, and she is at a loss. “Oh, um…”

“Come, come! Come sit! Connor’s voice is improving and he’s got such a lovely timbre, don’t cha think, Hickory? Sit! Then we can listen to Connor until Brook calls us for work!” Mare winks at him as he thumbs through the well-worn book. “It’s a slow day today; apparently all the men are about work instead of thinking about their cock's needs.”

Connor doesn’t think it is funny like Mare does, so he begins where a strip of ribbon has been placed to keep track in the book, his voice echoing softly about the room; both girls watch him with wide eyes as he spins the tale of an orphan fighting an unjust system.

He is tended for the following weeks by the entire house, at one point or another, each one striking him different. Lady Rennie gives him smiles and hands him cups of honeyed tea, with a soft hand to his cheek. Plum is shy, avoiding all eye-contact, whereas Mare boasts with ease and gloats about her conquests like they are normal day occurrences—he supposes they are for her; Brook is the stoic one, the one gathering everyone for supper and mending their clothes by the fire after a nasty bout with a customer, the one who Mare tells him kicked a guy out on his arse when he hit Hickory too hard and broke her spectacles. And Hickory, Hickory confides in him one night when they are both tired but the pain is too great to sleep; she presses a hand to her cheek to hide a bruise and smiles at him, telling him she was sold as a young girl from master to master until Lady Rennie took her in. Her skin may be differently colored than all the other girls, darker than even the exotic Brook’s, but all Connor sees is a girl in need of an outlet.

So when it comes time to leave, his bow and quiver slung about his shoulders, bands of beads and feathers in place over his clean and mended coat—oh, Lady Rennie truly spared no expense for him—, tomahawk at his hip, and hair tied back, he corners all five; he settles them in a chair about a table during a slow hour and stares at them with a frown on his face.

“I have a settlement,” he begins.


	3. There is understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ladies have a new future; Connor seeks answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just pretend AC3 timeline doesn't matter, okay, and for the sake of everything holy the Templars are still alive  
> I just have a lot of feels about the Templars and Assassins getting along, coming to an arrangement, dont mind me

He has settled all the ladies in, in a warm house he built with the help of the other men in his settlement; this is a large house, so the girls do not trip over each other like that shoddy hole so near the fort, so each one can have their own bed if they so wish. He truly spares no expense and ignores Achilles’ frowning visage as he goes out each day before the sun, so the structure can be done as soon as possible, and it is; when he returns with the ladies, he is happy to see the entire homestead come out to welcome them.

He should have expected as much, as it is what happened when each new person came to settle in, but for some reason he held apprehension at introducing the ladies. However, their previous place of instalment does not deter the village folk; they welcome the ladies as they always have, with open hearts and warm gifts.

Plum is immediately dragged away by the children, and Godfrey and Terry’s wives ask her to watch the children on the occasion it is needed; the young girl agrees. Connor even sees Prudence hand Hunter over during a busy day; he is very pleased.

Myrium finds Brook skinning a rabbit by a river, and asks her to go hunting with her sometime; Connor thinks they will have a strong friendship, balancing one another out. Myrium’s kind but strong personality, softening Brook’s more stoic attitude. When Brook isn’t off with Myrium, she is with Doctor White; surprisingly, White reports, she is an excellent assistant.

While Lady Rennie tends the house, finally allowing herself the days of womanhood responsibility, Father Timothy offers Hickory the church if she wishes to teach the children how to read and write and do arithmetic. Connor had had an inkling the lovingly worn copy of Oliver Twist had been hers, but the confirmation of her love for knowledge somehow makes him swell with pride.

Mare seeks employment at the inn, turning the sheets with Corrine when the visitors have left and mucking out stalls in the stables; she stops by the manor one day, taking Connor by surprise. He wipes his brow, having been rebuilding his strength in the basement, and invites her inside. She shakes her head, gnawing on her lip; she is hesitant, and he questions her.

“Is something the matter?”

The sentence has barely left his mouth before she has surged forward to wrap her arms about his waist; his first instinct is to throw her away, not because he is repulsed, but because most people who broach his person so are not doing so to be friendly. However, he softens; this is Mare. He wraps an arm around her, albeit a bit awkwardly, having not had much practice with these gestures; she barely reaches his chest, and he wonders if he is supposed to set his chin atop her head. He does.

This causes her to squeeze him tight; he feels his ribs creak some, but doesn’t protest. He is over the worst; they are over the worst. Here, they are safe and free.

“Thank you,” she whispers on his porch and he smiles out at the scenery around them.

“You are welcome.”

It’s only a few more days before he sets out for Boston; he rides at a trot through the Homestead for the Frontier, and from there to Boston. It doesn’t take him long before he is in the city, winding between crowds and soldiers atop his white mare; she huffs at the goings on around them, but he wastes time anyway. He checks in with the stores, buying provisions for the Homestead and signing convoy shipments for the near future; with that done, he stalks about the docks, biding his time, and when he has depleted all interest there he takes to the roofs.

Haytham will come to him; eventually.

Nearing two, the sun long gone from the sky, and the streets less crowded than before, Connor crouches near the edge of a slanted roof; he hears the soft rustle of fabric, mistakable for the wind in the trees, and then the smallest of movements beneath his feet—vibrations. He doesn’t turn, at least not yet, though he is taught and ready; if it comes to a fight, he will be ready. But he would like answers.

“Connor.” The voice is as calm as ever, and Connor peeks over his shoulder.

“Father.” He does not stand yet, calculating Haytham at a distance. “Come to finish what you started?”

“I’ve come out of curiosity; why are you in Boston so soon? Back to your pointless war?”

“I have come,” he intones, ignoring the jab. “Out of curiosity.”

That earns him a quirk of the other’s lips, a twinkle in the eyes. “Is that so? What might have drawn you here?”

Connor unfolds from his crouch, standing tall and half turning to face his father. “You.”

There is a pause, where they watch each other, and then Haytham is grinning; Connor is not sure if it is a ruse or not. “Well, I’m here; whatever did I do to peak your curiosity?”

Connor tips his head. “Why did you not kill me?”

The grin slips into a frown. “You are my son.”

“I am threatening your order.”

At that Haytham nods gravely. “Yes, you are, however you seem to keep forgetting we want the same thing; if you want to die for a cause so bad, die at another’s hands.” Haytham waves a hand, as if to say _you’re not worth my time_.

It’s Connor’s turn to frown. “You have said that before.”

“What?” He starts.

“Die at another’s hands; I have heard it before.” Connor wonders if this is wise, but goes on anyway. “When did you say that before?”

“When you were choking beneath me,” is the curt response; Haytham hopes Connor hadn’t read into his emotions during that time. “Though I doubt you would remember anything I said very clearly; you were, after all, having troubles breathing.” He says it like he’s observing the weather; _a bit breezy tonight, son, are you cold?_

Connor shivers involuntarily. “Why bring me to that…place?” He will not name it.

“The brothel? Lady Rennie is a lovely lady, is she not? I find her girls charming.”

“You have not…” He just might be sick tonight. “Tell me you have not…”

“Partaken in the goods? Heavens, no! Merrily observed for some time; no, that’s for Hickey to partake in after one too many drinks. I had to know who put a shiner on one of my men; turns out one of those lovely lady’s has a nasty right hook.”

Brook, Connor supplies to himself. “Why did you bring me there?”

“I was not going to leave you to burn to death in that god forsaken fort!”

Connor flinches, remembering a time where people burned to death in front of him, and Haytham must realize his mistake because he winces, seems to try and back-peddle without actually saying he’s sorry.

“What I mean to say is, it would not have served my purpose of letting you live if I had left you; so I brought you to the place of nearest convenience.”

Connor only now notices the bandages peeking out from beneath his father’s sleeve, where he stabbed him; he had thought that maybe it was just convenience, Haytham had been injured too after all, but there seemed to be more that Haytham was hinting at. He had, after all, mentioned keeping an eye on the girls, one of his own men finding that brothel enjoyable; as if Haytham was dropping breadcrumbs for Connor to follow, clues to solve this mystery.

Connor shakes his head minutely. “I still do not understand.”

Yet, Haytham remains silent.

Connor thinks, fingers involuntarily twitching at his side; he recalls everything he has been told, everything Haytham has spoken. What struck out, from all their conversations, is when Haytham mentioned them having the same thing. “You wanted the girls away from that life, and you thought I might offer them…solace.”

Haytham grins and begins pacing in a slow path about the rooftop. “I’ve been informed, by a sullen Hickey, that the Golden Goose,” as was the brothel’s nomenclature, complete with a bosomed goose painted upon the sign. “Has closed shop and shipped off; somewhere out in the frontier, I believe.”

Connor doesn’t reply, causing Haytham’s grin to widen.

“See? We do have the same desires, son; we just differ on how to achieve them.”

“Perhaps,” Connor begins, if a bit warily; he can still feel those hands around his throat, the anger at learning his father had sent Lee away,. “Perhaps, someday, we may agree on that too.”

Something changes in Haytham, and Connor feels every part of him loosen and melt away; it’s a subtle change in his face, his eyes to be specific, a glow to them. Connor feels it in him too.

Hope.


End file.
